Stick to the mission.
‘Nah, this prick ain’t a customer of mine and my boys found him creeping through the corridors with a fuckin’ gun in his hand. So I ain’t gonna leave him alone.’
‘He isn’t with me,’ Sam said through gritted teeth.
‘Well I don’t give a fuck what you say, Pope. He turns up the same time you do so you know what I’m gon do? I’m gon put a bullet in every one of his joints and then, when my boys pick you up any minute now, I’ll keep him alive long enough for him to watch me kill you. How does that sound?’ Riggs turned to the window, awaiting a response.
Sam lowered his head, closed his eyes, and thought about his son.
His Jamie.
Memories began to flood into his mind like a broken dam, from his son showing him his favourite books, to them play fighting on the sofa in front of a Disney film.
The memories always ended the same way, with the image of his son’s dead, lifeless body staring up at him from the pavement. The swerved car, driven by a drunk that Sam could have stopped.
All the guilt.
All the pain.
It flooded back, along with the empty promise to Jamie that he wouldn’t kill again.
A promise he had broken several times when he took down the High Rise.
A promise, he would break right now.
‘Sorry, Jamie,’ Sam uttered quietly.
‘Jamie? What the fu—’ Riggs’s question was cut off, as a bullet sliced through the glass window, zipped through the room, and penetrated the side of his skull. With a loud crack, it ripped out the other side, spraying the wall with brain matter and a fantastic red mist. Riggs fell to the floor lifeless and for a moment, the only sound was the crashing of the rain as it hammered the capital. Then, a barrage of gunshots echoed, along with shattered windows and cries of anger as Riggs’s men emptied their guns into the dark of the night, hoping to catch their unknown attacker with a stray bullet.
Sam stayed calm.
He was trained, and he pushed himself up onto one knee, resting a foot in front of himself and steadied himself. He pulled the gun tight to his chest, resting it in the grove between his pectoral and shoulder. It felt natural and despite the bitter chill of the rain, he felt back in Afghanistan all those years ago.
Scanning the top of the building, he noticed the terrified man crawling towards the door, when one of the thugs stepped towards him, clearly intending to lay down a marker of who was in charge.
The man raised his gun.
Sam pulled the trigger.
Silently, he saw a burst of red explode from the man’s chest as he spun and fell to the floor, lifeless. With the phone somewhere in the chaos, Sam could hear the cries of terror from the rest of the gang, as they rushed towards the door, all of them looking to escape the onslaught. Sam pushed himself up, his drenched clothes clinging to him as he ran across the fifth floor of the derelict building and he stepped through an empty doorframe onto a rickety, metal fire escape. The wind shook it like a baby’s rattle, but Sam carefully navigated down the steps, his boots gripping against the slippery metal, as he kept his gun trained on the building. The front door flew open and three shifty business men ran in any direction they could, clearly paying customers who had heard the commotion and realised they were a long way from home.
Sam continued down the metal staircase, his boots thudding on each step, when suddenly, the blast of gunfire shook the night sky followed swiftly by the ricochet of a bullet on the steps behind him. Sam instinctively ducked down, jumping the final three steps to the second-floor platform and swivelling on his heels, the scope of his gun peering between two of the railings that surrounded him.
Two of the gangsters had their gun drawn and aimed at his location, their faces plastered with murderous intent.
Sam aimed low and squeezed twice.
The first man cried out in agony as the bullet shattered his knee cap. The second followed suit, only that bullet had snapped his shin in half. They both fell into a crumpled heap onto the cold, wet pavement and Sam leapt to his feet, scaling the last two floors two steps at a time.
Sirens wailed in the distance, their volume increasing with every second as they rapidly approached his location. Any reports of gunfire were met with a swift and armed response by the Met, who worked tirelessly to protect the good people of their district. But Sam knew they were after him and even the slightest hint that he may be involved, and he was sure they were sending everyone they had.
He had to move.
Fast.
Just as he approached the final staircase to the street, two 4x4s screeched around the corner, the booming music and the over the top stylisation to the vehicles told him it was Riggs’s aforementioned back up. Sam whipped up the rifle once more and despite the obscuring downpour and speed of the vehicle, he sent one bullet straight into the front right tyre of the first vehicle.
The rubber exploded, blowing out instantly and the driver clearly panicked, the large car turning sharply to the right and screeching like a banshee as the metal wheel scrapped the pavement. The second car collided into it at full speed, spinning it even further and sending it careering into a lamp post in a magnificent display of sparks and flying metal.
The second car, now crumpled from bumper to windscreen, slowed to a stop a few feet from the two fallen gangsters, whose cries of pain had silenced as they lost consciousness. Three of the doors opened and three men stumbled out, all of them dazed from the collision. The driver, a broad man of Indian heritage, had blood trickling from
